


you can be a sweet dream (or a beautiful nightmare)

by grinandsin



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grinandsin/pseuds/grinandsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a frown. If Ian were there, maybe he’d roll over and touch the tips of his fingers to Mickey's face: pinky against the curve of his jaw, index and middle fingers barely tracing the side of his cheek, and his thumb grazing just under Mickey’s right eye. </p><p>But—Ian’s <i>not</i> there so Mickey continues to struggle with his dream until it eventually changes completely (where it was just angry words and hard punches, it’s now soft whispers and lustful looks).</p><p>(In which I write happy dream fic because 3.11 crushed my soul).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can be a sweet dream (or a beautiful nightmare)

**+**

Mickey's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a frown. If Ian were there, maybe he’d roll over and touch the tips of his fingers to Mickey's face: pinky against the curve of his jaw, index and middle fingers barely tracing the side of his cheek, and his thumb grazing just under Mickey’s right eye. 

But—Ian’s _not_ there so Mickey continues to struggle with his dream until it eventually changes completely (where it was just angry words and hard punches, it’s now soft whispers and lustful looks). 

In his dream, they’re sitting side by side on the steps of Ian’s house and it’s quiet, which is an unusually rare sound at the Gallagher home, Mickey’s well aware of that from all the stories Gallagher tells him. 

It's late and the air is heavy and thick, while the night sky is a midnight blue above their heads. So, it’s the perfect setting for them to just rest quietly against one another, elbows touching and legs knocking gently back and forth. It’s the closest thing to peaceful either of their lives seems to get these days. 

Ian sighs contentedly and gestures for the joint Mickey's been hogging for the past five minutes. Before he hands it over, Mickey takes another drag, long and slow, lethargic with half-closed eyes and a content noise. 

“Here shithead,” he says as he passes it. 

Ian takes it gleefully, holding the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger, eying the damp spot of saliva soaked at the tip of the end. Mickey figures he’s probably thinking about how Mickey never fucking bothers to tuck his lips in to keep the joint dry—because he _doesn’t_ and he ain’t gonna start just for Gallagher’s sake, but he’s smiling fondly at him so Mickey figures it’s probably alright anyway. 

“So, you really don’t think you’ll head back to school anytime soon?” 

" _Hell_ no,” Mickey replies, and his voice is the hardest it’s been all night. It’s not that he’s pissed or anything, he just fucking wishes Ian would stop trying to get him to further his education or whatever stupid shit this is. 

And yeah, on some level buried so deep that it’d be too hard to even find it, he knows he wouldn’t mind making something of himself, could probably even get away from this side of the town if he had it in him to try. But on the ground level of it all—he realizes wishing for something better is hopeless so he just _doesn’t_. 

This right here, sharing a joint on the steps of Ian’s damn house in the quiet peace of the night, this is the closest he will ever get to a white picket fence life and he’s okay with that. 

“Look,” he says, turning to face Gallagher directly, “I get that you want all of that and that’s cool as hell, but that shit just ain’t for me, alright?” 

Ian nods and takes another hit before saying, “I get it, it was just a thought, there wasn’t any hidden ulterior motives behind it, chill.” 

“Well thinkin' so damn hard isn’t a good idea, Firecrotch," Mickey says as he grabs the joint out of the redhead’s hands. "Screws with the mood." 

"There's a mood?" 

"Of course, it’s called fuckin’ _mellow_ , man." Mickey tilts his head, looks at Ian out of the corner of his eye, sees his stupid little lopsided grin and knows that yeah, they’re okay. 

“Hey, you wanna shotgun that?” Ian asks, head nodding in the direction of the joint in Mickey’s hand. There’s not much of it left, but there’s still probably enough to shotgun it once or twice so he shrugs and hands it over. 

Leaning his head to the side, Ian brings the joint to his lips and takes a long drag. He holds it in, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. He closes the distance between them, touches their lips together gentle enough that the ghost of his lips is sure to linger when he pulls away, and exhales. 

Smoke floods from one mouth to the other, and Mickey feels the warm, unnatural surge of the smoke invading his lungs. It’s not unpleasant and it hits him where he needs it—brushes off the last traces of worry he had over Ian’s comment about school. The smoke slithers over his tongue, drifting around his mouth until it finally finds escape, sneaking past his lips to touch Ian's again and then float away. 

“Want another hit?” Ian asks, voice a little more hoarse than it was moments ago, and Mickey says _sure_ with the shrug of one shoulder and _why not_ with the short nibble of his own lip. For two guys shotgunning a little bit of weed, everything feels weirdly intense between the two of them. 

Ian scoots up closer in his space, crowds him like he fucking belongs there or some shit, and feeds the smoke into his lungs like he’s afraid they’ll only be a story in the morning and he has to find a way to make them feel alive by then, make them a _legend_ by morning. 

This time when Ian attempts to move away Mickey gets a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in, kisses him properly because fuck it, he wants it (and he can worry about it in the morning, when he’s more or less sober). He licks into Ian’s mouth, which tastes a little bit like alcohol and smoke, while Ian shoves a hand down the front of his jeans. 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Mick,” he murmurs. “Want you.” 

"Shit, want you too, just not here," Mickey pants. His hands run up Ian’s sides, down again. "Somebody’ll see." 

“My room?” Ian offers. 

“Won’t Lip be there?” he asks, because yeah, he’s horny as fuck, has been half hard since they were drinking on the fields two hours earlier, but he’s not horny enough to wanna get caught in the act by Ian’s brother. He’d rather save that awkward shitstorm for another day. 

“No, he’s out,” Ian says simply as he starts to stand, pulling on Mickey’s arm as he does. Mickey lets him, just this once, and he doesn’t really care if that makes him a bitch because for tonight, Ian’s his. 

“Okay,” he says as way of response and lets Ian drag him inside the house, being careful to close the door gently before they carry on. 

The front room of the Gallagher home is dark and he can see the shadows of toys piled here and there across the room so he makes sure to step over in fear of making too much noise. The house looks the same in the middle of the night as it does in the day, but the intensity that he felt earlier hasn’t wore off yet (maybe because they’ve never done this really, never snuck the other into their room in the middle of the night for sex) so it all feels _different_ and new. 

“C’mon Mick,” Ian urges and then they’re stumbling through the house and to his room. 

Once they get in and close the door, Mickey takes a moment to appreciate the look of the room—the walls are littered with shitty teenage boy stuff like posters and album covers and there’s clothes piled in a small basket behind the door. But before he can even comment on it, how fucking traditional it is despite the fact that there isn’t _anything_ traditional about the Gallaghers, Ian’s pushing him towards the small bed tucked into the corner of the room. 

“Excited much, Gallagher?” he says, but falls back on the bed anyway. 

Within an instant, Ian’s on him, straddling his lap and pushing at the collar of his Mickey’s shirt until he can get at the hollow of his throat. He mouths against it, chases down the pulse in Mickey’s throat as he bites at it. He nips at the skin, sucks at it as Mickey’s breath hitches a bit, his own hands shoving Ian’s shirt over his head. 

And okay, so apparently weed makes Ian hornier than usual. He can work with that. 

Once they get both of their clothes off and they’re just flesh against flesh, Ian leans down, tangling their hands together and aligning their cocks so that Mickey maybe sort of forgets to breathe for a second at the contact. 

Mickey still has the buzz from that little batch of weed running in his system. There’s not enough left to make him as recklessly stupid as he’s been lately—not even enough to justify half of the noises he’s making while Ian fucking _slides_ against him—but enough to make him daring. Enough for him to say, “ _Damn_ , I really need—” 

(to kiss you again, you to suck me off, maybe even to suck you off, this to work, you) 

“—you to fuck me. Now. And then maybe again later if you don’t need to recharge or whatever the hell after we’re done.” 

Ian snorts as he stops moving against Mickey’s chest, and looks up at him, eyes dark and dilated. “Christ, you’re so fuckin’ bossy.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t get off on it,” Mickey responds softly (because he has to be quiet, not because they’re having a moment or some shit, hell no), but he’s sort of smiling again so he’ll blame it on the weed if Ian asks. 

But it does the trick anyway because Ian’s leaning over him to grab some lube and condoms off his dresser, and within a moment he’s back and preparing himself. Mickey spreads his legs more, tries to get used to the cool feel of the lube near his ass. Once Ian must assume he’s good enough to go, he leans in and lines himself up against Mickey. 

“You good?” 

Instead of speaking, he just nods and arches his back, shuddering ripple of spine and flex of muscle beneath freckled skin, lower lip trembling, and Ian bends to catch it, sinks his teeth into its softness and growls. Shoves with his hips, hard, to meet Mickey’s own thrust and breathes in the gasp Mickey makes when Ian pumps into him and starts fucking. Mickey's grip tightens on his hand, probably tight enough to be painful, but Ian doesn’t let go either. 

“Gallagher, I swear if you don’t fucking go harder, I’m going to explode,” he says, and it’s a breathy sort of threat, hindered by the way he spreads his legs a little more. He chokes off a moan as he tries to pretend that Ian isn’t already wrecking and reshaping him, tearing him down to his foundation only to fucking build him right back up again. 

And _shit_ , that was actually kind of loud. 

“Shh, Mick, Fiona’ll hear,” Ian whispers back, grinning up at him, and then he starts fucking _giggling_ , as if the possibility of getting _caught_ by his older sister with his dick in Mickey’s ass is _hilarious_. 

Once he composes himself, Ian shifts again, lowers his hips and starts moving again and God. It’s good. The dampness of Ian's sweaty hair, the solid bone of his hips, the warmth of his skin, the soft dip and curve of muscle. Mickey’s aware of it all, but mostly, mostly there's exhilaration as Ian starts up a lazy thrusting that hits him right where he needs it, and it's so fucking good that he wants to die. 

“Fuckin’ just let go already, asshole,” Ian says after a few minutes. “I got you.” 

And it’s almost as if Mickey was just waiting for Ian to speak because he just sort of _does_ let go after that. 

He gasps and shudders as he comes, coating Ian's stomach. He breathes Ian's name and lets him kiss him, messy and hard, even as he's still trembling through his orgasm, and when he bites Ian's lip it's enough to send Ian over the edge. 

They cling together, rocking through the aftershocks, trading touches that start off hard enough to bruise, but fade into something that Mickey’ll think over again in the morning. Eventually, Ian pulls out, tosses the condom into the trash, and collapses down next to Mickey to bask in the afterglow. 

“ _Fuck_ , that was good,” Mickey says several minutes later, once he’s finally regained his power to speak properly (not like he’ll tell Ian he fucking lost that ability, but still). 

“Yeah,” Ian says and his voice is still completely wrecked. “Real good.”

  
**-**

And then Mickey is forced awake, heart pounding in his chest a little harder than usual, and boxers tight and constricting around his dick. 

At the same moment he moves his hand to hit whoever the fuck that’s sitting above him, because he was so damn close in his dream and they just fucked it all up, he realizes it’s _her_. 

The Russian bitch. 

His goddamn _wife_. 

She’s sitting above him, her tiny hands shaking his shoulders and setting a fire ablaze on his skin where they’re touching. He swats her hands away and is instantly hit with the feeling to push her off the damn bed and get her as far away from him as possible, but he forces the disgust farther down the back of his throat. 

She’s drops her hands from his shoulders as soon as she sees he’s awake. 

“Your father,” she whispers, then points towards their— _his_ —bedroom door and he finally realizes what she’s freaking the hell out about. “Sounds angry,” she offers, but he ignores that comment because yeah, there’s never been a day in his life that his father didn’t sound angry. It’s the bastard’s default setting. 

“Shit,” he says before rushing to get up and out the fucking door. “Stay here,” he calls back over his shoulder, as if she had any other plans in the first place. 

Once out in the hallway and face-to-face with his father, he loses whatever bravado he just possessed because all he can do is stand there. Usually, this would be the time when he begs and pleads for his dad to give him the chance to explain before he starts throwing punches, but if Mickey’s completely honest with himself (which he tries not to be), he doesn’t feel like apologizing to his father for shit anymore. 

He married the Russian—he cleaned up that mess and made himself a new one. 

He fucked Ian up pretty badly this time, maybe even once and for all, and if a beating is the only thing he gets as retribution for it then he’ll be appreciative. So, he stands and awaits whatever hell he’s in for this time. 

But Terry just grimaces at him and pats him on the shoulder in what he probably assumes is a gentle and comforting touch, but really ends up burning Mickey as much as the Russian’s touch did. “Good job today son,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says slowly, waiting for the other shoe to fall, and if he goes back in his room and cries while his stupid bitch of a wife watches then that’s his damn fucking business and no one else’s.

**Author's Note:**

>  **a/n:** hi, this is just a friendly reminder that whatever you do, you should _not_ blame Svetlana (Mickey's wife) for what transpired in 3x11. Because contrary to some of the fandom's belief, she is just as much of a victim as Mickey is. Her consent was taken from her (through Terry forcing her at gunpoint, essentially), similarly to that of Mickey's. Please do not blame the victims. 
> 
> if you're going to blame anyone, let it be Terry Milkovich, for he initiated the course of action that resulted in the rape of both mickey and (indirectly) Svetlana.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading!  
> xx


End file.
